


When You Get a Good Thing

by dizzzylu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, POV Outsider, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:11:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Our parents are flirting," he says, hoping his whisper wasn't as loud as it sounded</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Get a Good Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GigiDoyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GigiDoyle/gifts).



> So, today is the day of the illustrious Cornmouse's birth. And when I asked her what kind of fic she'd like, if she could hand pick a fic, she threw a bunch of Mrs. Martin/Sheriff feels at me because she's a sap at heart (SECRET'S OUT, BB) and she has a soft spot for the real life couple. I'm not sure this is the fic she envisioned, but I started writing it immediately after that convo, so hopefully she likes it.
> 
> Thanks to DevilDoll for the beta. I tinkered with it after, so all remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> (Wendy, if you're reading this, you know I love you, but this is not a shippy fic, hence the gen classification with ship listings. You'll forgive me, I know you will ♥)

While knowing about the supernatural side of Beacon Hills doesn't necessarily make the sheriff's job easy, it does make it eas _ier_ , now that he has an explanation for Stiles showing up at random crime scenes over and over again. That knowledge usually translates to the sheriff coming home less stressed, which makes Stiles’ job of fighting the supernatural and keeping his dad safe easier, too.

But even though the sheriff comes home in a good mood more often than not these days, tonight's whistling is definitely unusual. Unusual enough for Stiles to leave his vegetarian chili to its simmer and investigate the source of his dad's happiness.

Stiles finds his dad in the entry, shrugging off his jacket. "Heeey dad," Stiles says, aiming for nonchalant. He studies his dad to determine the sheriff's level of distraction; the more distracted his dad is, the more blatant the questions can be. Stiles estimates it's around a four. Damn.

The sheriff greets Stiles with a nod, but barely looks at Stiles as he nudges him away from the gun safe. It's rude, sure, but Stiles uses it to his advantage, eyes his dad up and down and back up again. Even leaving aside the whistling, there's something about his dad that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. It might be that his eyes are brighter or his smile a touch wider. Or maybe...does his dad seem taller? His chest puffed out more?

Stiles gasps and plants his hand flat on his dad's chest, using steady, firm pressure to push him into the wall. "Callie came back, didn't she?" Stiles' eyes narrow as he scans for the telltale signs: smudges of dirt at the pulse, dilated pupils, the faint scent of honey and gardenias. "Derek told her," Stiles growls, "that Beacon Hills was off limits." He doesn't realize the power of his grip until his dad is lifting Stiles' fingers off, one by one.

"What are you-- I haven't seen Calliope in months," his dad says, giving Stiles a gentle shove. "Can't a guy just have a good day at work?"

Stiles follows him into the kitchen and ignores the grimace when his dad steals a peek at the pot. "Not when said guy is the sheriff of Beacon Hills, no. C'mon, tell me what's got you all--" Stiles sketches a gesture meant to encompass the sheriff's entire body.

The sheriff looks down at himself, then back up at Stiles, and shrugs. "I have no idea what you're talking about." While his dad washes his hands, Stiles takes out the bowls and spoons, as well as the plain Greek yogurt and reduced fat cheese he shredded earlier. "What's with the whistling then?" he asks, spooning out their dinner.

The sheriff doesn't answer, but he appears to give the day some thought, hiding behind several bites of chili before he finally says, "I have no idea, kid."

Stiles sighs the sigh of the well and truly exasperated. "Am I going to have to make you go through your day minute by minute? You know I will." He points his spoon at his dad for emphasis, but it's weakened by the glob of chili that lands on the back of the sheriff's hand.

"Why does it matter?" his dad asks, giving his hand a pained look.

"Because I have to make sure you didn't get whammied!" Stiles pants a little, quietly, feeling more exhausted now than he did when Finstock made them run suicides in gym today.

The sheriff heaves his best 'why me' sigh, wipes the chili off his hand, and says, "Stiles, listen to me. Today was a beautiful day. I didn't have to write any tickets, there were no supernatural shenanigans, and I even helped a woman change her flat tire. All in all it was a good day. Can't that be enough?"

Stiles stares down at his chili, eating it without tasting it. His dad's speech seems logical, considering, but Stiles studies it anyway, forward and backward, inside-out and upside-down. There's nothing he can argue with.

_God_ , that's annoying.

: : :

For the last several months, since the awful massacre at the station, really, Stiles has taken it upon himself to do the weekly grocery shopping. It's not the most exciting thing to do on a Wednesday night, but it prevents the sheriff from getting scurvy. When it comes to his dad's health, Wednesday nights are a sacrifice Stiles is willing to make.

Only, now the station is at full capacity again, rebuilt and running close enough to a well-oiled machine that the sheriff can cut back on a few of his shifts, and Stiles has a shiny new job taking up his time (Jeep repair is expensive, and he's yet to hear any of the wolves offer up any sort of reimbursement). With college looming low on the horizon, the sheriff keeps getting more and more creative, looking for any and all father-son bonding opportunities.

Sadly, grocery shopping isn't the worst idea he's had (that gold star goes to helping rebuild the station. Stiles and power tools? Never. Again.). But Stiles fails to see how grocery shopping can be considered bonding when the sheriff keeps wandering away to peruse the candy aisle or the kids' cereal. Subtle, his dad is not.

This time, Stiles loses him before they've gotten to the avocados, only to find him in front of the meat case, talking with Lucy the butcher. Stiles sidles up just as the sheriff points to the rib-eyes, asking about spice rubs and grilling time.

Before Lucy can answer, Stiles says, "Hey Luce, I'll take my usual, please." Lucy's gaze bounces between Stiles' stern face and the sheriff's hopeful puppy eyes.

"Who's the parent here, Lucy?" Stiles' dad says.

Lucy takes a deep breath, gives Stiles a long look, then reaches for the 95/5 ground chicken.

Stiles magnanimously refrains from throwing up victory arms at the same time his dad grumbles, "I thought being sheriff was supposed to mean something."

Lucy at least manages to look sheepish as she hands over the chicken, plus two boneless pork chops. "Sorry sheriff, I'm a sucker for lacrosse players, I guess."

Stiles gives her a wink and a nod and is about to herd his dad in the direction of the organic aisle when he almost literally runs into--

"Lydia! And her mom!" Who's pushing the cart he rammed into. "Sorry, Mrs Martin."

"It's fine," she says, but she's not looking at him, she's looking over his shoulder, at his dad. His dad who is taking a step forward and reaching out his hand. To Lydia's mother. Huh.

"Hello, Mrs Martin," the sheriff says. "Good to see you again."

"Sheriff." She nods, flashing him a quick, pleased smile. "Please call me Margaret."

"Only if you call me John. How's your tire?" Stiles gives him a look the sheriff completely ignores, eyes narrowed and questioning.

"It's all taken care of. I went in and got all the tires replaced the next day." She goes on to say more, but Stiles tunes out the conversation to watch their body language, torn between fascination and horror. It's not like the actual words they're saying are important. No, what's more interesting is how his dad keeps rocking back and forth, a subtle sway that brings him closer to Mrs Martin each time. And that smile, the bashful one that's all teeth and furrowed eyebrows, the sheriff's head dipped down to hide the heat rising in his cheeks.

Teetering toward fascination, Stiles turns to Mrs Martin. She, too, has the smile-slash-head dip thing going on, but she also can't stop touching her throat or her chest, palm flat like she's trying to hold in her laughter. And when she's not touching her throat, she's reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. It doesn't seem to want to stay put, which would annoy the hell out of Stiles, but Mrs Martin doesn't seem to notice at all. It isn't until she reaches out to touch his dad, her fingertips light on his wrist to draw his attention from his feet to her face, that Stiles is able to look away from the both of them.

"Our parents are flirting," he says to Lydia, hoping his whisper wasn't as loud as it sounded.

"I know." Stiles can hear the eye-roll in her voice

"My dad," Stiles gestures in the sheriff's direction. "And your mom."

Lydia sighs. "I'm not blind, Stiles."

"That's weird, though. Isn't that weird. I think it's weird."

Lydia's voice sharpens. "Are you saying my mother is weird, Stiles?"

Stiles head whips around to see Lydia with her arms crossed over her chest, her chin tilted up in quiet defiance. "I'm not-- What?! No! Of course I'm not! I just--" Stiles flails a gesture to stall for time. "My dad."

Lydia's entire stance softens and her hand is warm where it gives his arm a squeeze. "This is your first time, isn't it?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"The first time your dad has seen another woman as possible dating material. Since your mom."

Stiles breath leaves him in a quiet whoosh and his whole body stills. "Yeah," he says, sounding surprised. "I guess it is. Wow." It's not a subject that ever came up, really. At first they were too busy mourning his mom, then trying to get the panic attacks under control. After that, Scott came along and, other than to monitor his dad's physical health and safety, Stiles never gave it much thought. He gives himself a mental kick for being so selfish.

Mrs Martin laughs, then, out of the blue. A warm, brassy sound that draws Stiles' attention to her and his dad again. They're closer still, and his dad's reaching out to brush that stubborn lock of hair away from her face. She watches the movement with knowing eyes and turns into his hand so his thumb brushes her cheek. Stiles is impressed, and not just because of the fond twinkle in his dad's eye.

"You Stilinski men seem to have a soft spot for the Martin women." She nudges him with her hip and flashes him a smug smile. "For the record, I approve."

Stiles covers his eyes with his hand to keep from seeing Lydia give his dad a once-over.

: : :

As it turns out, Stiles missed some important information when he decided to ignore the conversation between his dad and Mrs Martin. He doesn't learn about it until a few nights later; the tell-tale whistling is back, this time coming from the depths of his dad's bedroom. Now that Stiles has seen the cause, he isn't as worried, only surprised that it's happening three days after the grocery store incident. And on a Saturday night to boot.

"Yooooo, pops," Stiles greets, nudging open the door with his knuckles. He isn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't his dad in a pair of faded jeans and a button-down shirt, shrugging himself into a soft, dark blazer. His hair, longer now than it's been in awhile, is still a little damp at the edges, but loose and wavy, touchable. A glint of gold at his dad's wrist catches Stiles' eye and he spots the fancy watch Stiles' mom gave him as a gift after his first election for sheriff. His dad only ever wore it on their "date nights," and something inside Stiles rattles free at seeing it again after all this time.

"How do I look?" his dad asks, giving Stiles a slow, exaggerated turn in front of the mirror.

Stiles' mouth works open and closed a few times, but he manages to smile and blink back the prickle of tears in his eyes. "Stone cold fox, Dad," he says, his voice rougher than he means it to be. For his part, the sheriff is too excited to really notice, and he checks the mirror one more time, smoothing out an errant lock of hair that refuses to stay put.

"But is it good enough for Margaret?" he huffs, giving his hair the ten yard stare.

Stiles approaches him from behind and picks some non-existent lint from his dad's shoulder. It gives Stiles the excuse to smooth his palm over the blazer and squeeze his dad's bicep. "If it's not good enough for her, then she doesn't deserve you." His voice is firmer this time, his smile, too.

His dad flashes him a quiet, grateful look. "Thanks, kid."

"Got everything?" Stiles asks. He takes a step back to shake of the momentary melancholy.

The sheriff pats himself down, chest, pockets, back pockets. "Keys, wallet, pride. Yep."

Stiles arches an eyebrow. "And what about condoms?"

"Picking them up on the way."

Stiles snorts. "That's m'boy. Look at you all growed up." He gives his dad's cheek a playful pinch.

"Real cute, kid," his dad mutters, swatting at Stiles' hand. He takes one last look in the mirror, drags in a long, deep breath, and gives Stiles a decisive nod. "See ya later."

"Curfew's at eleven!" Stiles shouts at his dad's retreating back.

His dad yells back, "Don't wait up!"

: : :

Lydia showing up at his door is a surprise, but Stiles thinks maybe it shouldn't be. It's not like this is her mom's first dinner-date- _thing_ , but certainly she could've made better plans than studying with Stiles for their civ mid-term?

"I came to help you through your first date," she says, swanning through the door and into the living room with no invitation whatsoever. Stiles gets left behind, shell-shocked, with the door wide open.

He gives himself, and the door, a shake before following in her wake, eyes narrowed in confusion and suspicion. "Who says I need help with anything?"

"You always need help," she sighs, "but are rarely willing to admit it. It's fine. I could use the review anyway." She lowers herself to the sofa, legs crossed at the ankles, and spreads her books out around her. "It's polite to offer company something to drink. A snack wouldn't go amiss, either." She doesn't bother looking up.

"I--"

"Popcorn, please. No butter."

"You--"

She flicks her eyes up and flashes him a quick smile. "Thank you!"

Stiles is actually grateful for the time in the kitchen. It gives him a chance to regroup, to figure out how to explain how he feels without Lydia to distract him. By the time the popcorn is done, he thinks he has a solid game plan. "I am actually okay with my dad dating again, you know." He flops onto the couch as he says it, setting the popcorn and bottles of water on the coffee table in front of them.

Lydia studies him for a long moment, eating the popcorn one kernel at a time. It's hard to stay still under the scrutiny, but Stiles mostly manages it. It's not like he can force the heat in his cheeks to go away. He tries to distract himself with digging out his notebook and review cards, chancing glances at Lydia out of the corner of his eye.

"You really believe that," she says, a bit wondering.

"Yeah I-- I really-- I do." He bobbles his head from side to side, searching for the words. "We both loved my mom, and that'll never go away, but that doesn't mean Dad has to be alone for the rest of his life. I mean, I'm going to college soon, moving out after that, and Dad's going to need someone to take care of him. To love him." Stiles firms up his shoulders. "Yeah," he repeats, more to himself than for Lydia's sake. "This is definitely forward progress."

Lydia's eyes have a proud gleam in them. "That's very mature of you."

"Thanks," he mumbles, bashful, shrugging off her words.

"Besides," she says around a kernel of popcorn. "It's not like it'll work out."

Stiles' hand stills to a hover over his textbook. "What do you mean?"

"Well, your dad's still wearing his ring."

Stiles thinks back to his dad's primping in the bedroom. He remembers the watch and the fading seams of the blazer, his dad's unruly hair. And there it is, the sneaky glint of gold off his dad's left hand, bright against his blue button-down shirt. Stiles can't decide if it's bad that he never noticed before how his dad still wears it, nine years after his mom's death. It's been such a fixture in Stiles' life -- in _both_ their lives -- that he's having a hard time picturing his dad without it. "Your mom doesn't wear her ring anymore?"

Lydia scoffs, "No. She took it off the second daddy's car disappeared around the corner. The fact is, your dad is actually a good guy. My mom would chew him up and spit him out. Your dad deserves better. _Not_ that I don't love my mom," she adds with a hint of steel in her tone.

Stiles understands what Lydia's trying to say. It's how Stiles fell from love into like; by realizing how much work would have to go into dating her. Dressing right and acting a certain way, maintaining a facade that Stiles would never have the energy for. It's better like this, being friends, being a person she can relax with and confide in. It occurs to him, while watching her recopy some notes in her small, loopy hand-writing, that she must have learned all that bluster from somewhere, and if Stiles isn't willing to deal with it for Lydia, it stands to reason his dad wouldn't want to for Mrs Martin, either.

"It's okay," Lydia says after a few minutes of silence, still focused on her notes. "It's good for both of you, testing the waters, figuring out if you're ready or not."

Stiles sighs and squints one eye closed. "Do you have to be right _all_ the time?"

Lydia rolls her eyes at him. "Why would I ever want to be wrong?"

"Good point." Stiles shrugs at nobody and turns back to his notes. They both read in silence for awhile, until something else dawns on Stiles. "Hey, so why are we helping each other study when we both know you've got valedictorian all locked up?"

Lydia snorts. "We're not helping each other. I'm here to help you." The look on her face says Stiles should know what she's implying, but he really, really doesn't. "Stiles, sweetie," she gives his knee a patronizing pat, "It's no fun winning valedictorian if you make it too easy."

Stiles has nothing to say to that.

: : :

Three hours later, almost as suddenly as she came in, Lydia packs up her stuff and leaves. "Have a good night!" she chirps at Stiles, still on the couch, wide-eyed and confused. Which is not an uncommon occurrence for them, unfortunately.

His dad walks in ten minutes later, keys jangling, steps slow. Stiles stays on the couch and waits for his dad to come to him, to keep from looking like a nosy, hovering kid. Well, more so than usual.

Impatient and curious, Stiles calls out, "How'd it go?" after a few quiet minutes. He can hear the faint rustle of his dad's blazer, the thunk of shoes being tossed into the closet, and then his dad emerges from the front hall, glassy-eyed and hesitant. 

"It went okay, I think." There's a smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth and his hair looks more tousled than it did when he left. Stiles coughs to hide his grin.

"How was the grub?"

"She made lamb chops. With mint jelly sauce." The look of bliss on his dad's face is, quite frankly, obscene.

Stiles sighs and shakes his head. "I knew she was going to spoil you." He watches his dad's meandering approach toward the recliner, follows his slow-motion drop into it with a gusty, "Oof." 

If Stiles could only use one word to describe his dad right now, it'd be adorable. It's hard for Stiles to keep his smile from going too wide. "Are you going to see her again?" He's aiming for innocent, but his dad's too dazed to notice either way.

"Yeah, we have plans for, uh, next Thursday?" He reaches for the remote and queues up a football game on the DVR. "Some movie thing, I dunno. It might be in French?"

There are a lot of ways Stiles could go, but he chooses the magnanimous route. "So long as I don't have to come pick you up for necking in the back row, I'll allow it."

Eyes finally cleared, his dad levels him with an unimpressed look. "You are, as ever, kid, so generous."

"Yeah," Stiles sighs, smug. "I know."

: : :

It takes two more dates for Mrs Martin and Stiles' dad to realize they're incompatible. But during those four weeks, the sheriff is...more relaxed, his smile coming easier and lasting longer. He never shares any details with Stiles, but then Stiles isn't really looking for them anyway. As long as his dad is happy, that's all that matters.

The one thing Stiles notices is that the ring hangs around. He wasn't sure, after the talk with Lydia, if he was ready for his dad to take it off yet, so Stiles' relief is kind of a surprise. And now that he's more aware of it, he often catches his dad toying with it, turning it around or slipping it on and off. There's always a faraway look in his dad's eyes when he's doing it, and then a shake of his head to draw himself out of it, but the ring stays where it is.

His dad stays right where he is, as well. With senior year and graduation coming up fast, college right behind it, he turns his focus back to Stiles and the pack. It seems summer is the supernatural high tide, and Stiles' dad is determined to get them through it by sheer force of will. It leaves little time for dating, for either of them, but Stiles is okay with that. He feels the need to get as much dad-time in as possible, too.

: : :

In between making the rounds to visit colleges and making the _other_ rounds with Scott and Derek to work out werewolf politics, Stiles' senior year turns out to be not so bad. Dating is a thing he does, which seems to ease something in Stiles' dad, Stiles rocks the cross country circuit, _and_ he gets promoted to first line. Permanently. For once, everything seems to be working the way it should be.

Until the sheriff comes home one November night, grumbling about a charity fundraiser for the sheriff's station.

"What's the problem, pops?" Stiles greets over his plate of spaghetti squash.

"The committee's decided on the fund raiser this year," he says, grimacing down at his own plate.

Stiles perks up. "Oh, what is it this year? Bake sale? Video game marathon? I could kill at that, you know I could. I hope it isn't a dance-off again." He mumbles the last part around a mouthful of squash.

"If only it were a dance-off," the sheriff moans, his head propped up by the heel of one hand.

Stiles nudges at the sheriff's elbow on the table. "Mrs. Levi would disagree with you."

His dad snickers. "I still can't believe you didn't break her hip."

"New dress shoes on a polished gym floor? Never again," Stiles swears. "So, what's the bad news?"

The sheriff heaves a sigh, squares his shoulders, and says, "Bachelor auction."

The silence that follows feels too heavy for the room, certainly too heavy for the ridiculous subject, but Stiles has too many comebacks flipping through his head.

"I'm think I'll get you one of those Chippendale costumes," Stiles says after several minutes. He waves his fork at the sheriff, indicating his chest and arms. "Something that'll show off your pecs and biceps."

The sheriff's quiet, defeated laugh gets muffled by the hand he scrubs over his face.

: : :

Stiles does, in fact, buy such a costume, but he also braves his mother's closet to dig out his dad's old suit and prays it still fits. It feels good to dress his dad up, pin a boutonniere to his lapel and give him a pep talk about fresh breath and smiling pretty. There's no doubt in Stiles' mind his dad is a catch. Any of the bidders tonight would be lucky to have him.

Of course, Stiles' dad is last on the schedule, the "money maker" of the force. All the bachelors before him (bachelorettes, too, thanks to Stiles and Lydia's emphatic suggestion) garner their fair share of cash, but it's the sheriff who gets the highest starting bid and Stiles is secretly thrilled to see it's Mrs McCall with the opening bid. He exchanges a look with Scott from across the room and keeps his fingers crossed.

Unfortunately, being a nurse only gives her so much expendable cash and she's knocked out fairly early. She's disappointed to be outbid, of course, but the surprise is the rueful slant of the sheriff's eyes, despite his smile. He's able to keep hamming it up for the crowd, but his attention darts back to Mrs McCall enough that even Scott notices.

After everything is through and the winning bidders are settling their wagers, Scott sneaks up behind Stiles and pulls him in by the shoulder. "Did I see what I think I saw?" he whispers.

"Yeah, I think we did."

"Awesome," he breathes, right into Stiles ear, then stills, his grip tightening. "You're cool with it, right?"

Stiles spins, offended. "What?! Of course I am! Your mom is awesome."

"Cool, cool." Scott nods, his grin widening. "Think anything'll happen before we leave for school?"

Stiles scans the room for his dad and finds him and Mrs McCall in the hallway, heads ducked close, quietly laughing. The hand she rests on his arm looks familiar, comfortable.

"I dunno," Stiles says. "Maybe."

: : :

Despite all the planning and hoping, Stiles doesn't quite get home from college as often as he'd like. It's harder than he expected, especially with a party bro for a roommate, and scholarships requiring impeccable grades. Top that with the job he has to maintain on the weekends and Stiles is busy nearly all the time. The only consolation is that the whole pack is in the same boat, if not on the same campus.

He makes time to email with his dad, though, and Skype on the rare night they're both free. It's not the same, but Stiles never really expected it to be. His dad talks about the new recruits and Stiles bitches about his impossible T.A. ("worse than _Harris_ , dad"). The sheriff asks about any dating prospects in Stiles' life and Stiles reciprocates ("there may have been some...coffee dates." Stiles thoroughly enjoys his dad's blush). It's not perfect, but it works well enough. Besides that, Stiles also keeps in touch with Derek and Marjorie from the station. Margie swears that the sheriff isn't sneaking any red meat and Derek promises there's been nothing he can't handle. So, Stiles will just have to learn how to adjust.

No big deal.

: : :

The original plan for Thanksgiving weekend is for Stiles to show up at the house on Wednesday, Jeep full to bursting with dirty laundry, and for him and his dad to do their yearly ritual of roasting a chicken and vegging out in front of the football games. It's a good plan, except for how Stiles gets antsier and antsier the closer to Wednesday he gets.

By Tuesday afternoon, he can barely concentrate in his late afternoon sociology class. The girl two seats down from him keeps giving him the side-eye, all but demanding he stop bouncing his knee and drumming his pencil. He does, but it only lasts about five minutes, and then he's back at it again, watching the clock and chewing his fingernails, too.

After class lets out, he sprints toward his dorm, groping for the phone in his pocket. There's nobody to get in his way at least, which is nice, but mostly it emphasizes the fact that freshman know nothing when it comes to college and holidays. The only people left, it seems, are underclassmen, all of them bewildered at how empty the campus is.

By the time Stiles gets to his room, Scott's on the other end of the line, panting about half as hard as Stiles. "Dude," Stiles gasps, bent over at the waist to catch his breath. "I can't take this. I'm leaving in ten. You?"

"Yeah, totally. Meet you at Derek's?"

Stiles nods. "I'll call the others."

: : :

Nobody gets to Derek's before ten, which means nobody leaves until at least two. And, even though Stiles is pleasantly buzzed and hasn't been home for four months, he still remembers all the tricky spots to avoid as he sneaks up the stairs.

He's exhausted but happy, reunited with his friends and, soon, his dad. His bed, too. Big and familiar and cozy. He only has enough wherewithal to toe his shoes off, and then he's tipping forward, faceplanting into his pillow with all the grace of a water buffalo. It smells so familiar it makes Stiles' chest ache until, between one breath and the next, Stiles is asleep.

It feels like only a few minutes later when something startles him awake and he twists into a sitting position, his hand reaching for the bat under his bed. His eyes are dry and crusty and it tastes like something rotted in his mouth, but he's on high alert regardless, straining to hear the noise that woke him in the first place.

His eyes fall to the window out of habit more than anything, and he's surprise to see light seeping in around the edges of the blinds, the soft pale yellow of dawn. The glowing red 7:30 is equally shocking, but then there's the squeak again, from outside his door, and Stiles doesn't give a shit what time of day it is. He makes his way over to the door, careful to maneuver around his shoes and the desk chair, and whips it open, the bat raised, ready to swing.

It takes him longer than it should to register what he's seeing, there's even a small voice in his head asking him just how much alcohol he had the night before, but then he's dropping his bat and slapping a hand over his face because that is _Scott's mom_. In the hallway. Wearing his dad's uniform shirt. And hopefully a pair of boxers, too, _holy shit_.

The silence is swift and absolute. Stiles can't hear her breathing or his own breathing or the animals outside. It wouldn't surprise him if the Earth has stopped spinning. It's so quiet, he isn't even sure she's still there, but he doesn't want to chance a peek, either, and his mouth seems to be broken for the first time _ever_.

"You weren't supposed to be home until later today," she says eventually, half-whispering, half-hissing. He knows that tone of voice and the face that goes with it, and his knees shake.

"We were homesick!" he squeaks, tightening his hold on his face.

"Is Scott in there with you?!" She sounds closer. Stiles would swear that's her breath fanning over his collar bone. His grip on the door loosens as she pushes on it.

"No! No, just me. Only me. I swear."

"Good." Then, softer, "Your father wanted to tell you face to face. So that if you had any questions..."

Stiles thinks by 'questions' she means 'objections', but he's not about to correct her. She's still in front of him, close, but he only needs to take one step back to close the door. Her hand around his wrist stops him.

"Please don't say anything about this," she pleads. "I don't want to take that from him."

Stiles deflates in a rush and tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. "Does Scott know?" he asks.

Mrs McCall snorts. "Like he'd ever be able to keep that kind of secret from you."

Stiles nods. "Right, of course."

"Can you not tell him, either?" She pauses and he can hear her swallow. "I want to be the one."

Stiles nods again, blinking furiously behind his hand. He thinks if he squeezes his face any harder, his eyes will pop out. "Yeah, sure, no problem. Can I go back to bed now?" He tries to wave his free hand at the bed, only he misjudges the distance between him and the door because his _eyes are covered_ and gives his knuckles a painful crack. At least he can hide his wince behind his functioning hand.

"Yes, Stiles. Sleep off your hangover." She gives his head an affectionate shove and he's just startled enough for it to throw him off balance. He flails a hand out to grab anything to keep him from falling, but realizes too late that he needed that hand to keep from seeing things he shouldn't ever see. Like Scott's mom's bare thighs, holy god.

He makes it to the bed by the skin of his teeth and flops onto his back. The ceiling seems to be the perfect thing to stare at while he processes the last five minutes. It's such a monumental moment that Stiles is still and quiet, his fingers frozen against his chest as he weighs the pros and cons of what he's about to do. Even his heart seems to slow until he makes up his mind, and then it all starts back up, everything clicking and whirring in double time.

**WAKE UP**. Stiles taps out on his phone, thrumming with energy now. The problem is, Scott is a heavy sleeper and he doesn't have a hangover to recover from. Stiles has to send the text a few dozen times for it to have an impact.

**wtf! SLEEP**.

Stiles bounces into a sitting position, too wired to lay still. **Guess who i just ran into in my hallway**.

**Lochness monster**. Scott's never on his A-game before ten AM. Even if he's had his coffee.

**YOUR MOM**.

**Why would mom be there?** Then, **Is your dad hurt?! I'll be right over!**

**No dude**. Stiles grins down at his phone. **She was wearing MY DAD'S SHIRT**.

There's a long pause that makes Stiles antsy and he shakes his phone, as if that'll inspire an incoming text. Finally, his alert dings and Stiles flails to unlock his phone.

Scott's response: **I GET TOP BUNK!**

Stiles falls to the floor laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [dizzzylu](http://dizzzylu.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
